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While the news that British passports issued after October of next year will be navy blue rather than burgundy was heartily cheered in some quarters, others — like Nicola Sturgeon, who denounced it as ‘insular nonsense’ — weren’t so delighted. And others still wondered what all the fuss was about.

The full spectrum of opinion was reflected in a small but punchy entry, and in the winning line-up. Commendations go to David Silverman’s ‘Jerusalem’-inspired verse, and to Frank Upton, Sylvia Fairley and Fiona Pitt-Kethley, who also shone.

Basil Ransome-DaviesI got my first at age eleven, A ticket to another land Guaranteed by Ernest Bevin. It felt like freedom in my hand.

I saw the Rhineland’s saddened state Six years after the war we won; My passport meant I couldn’t hate The fallen enemy, the Hun.

A dynasty of documents In midnight blue (or black) unbent Any contorted inference That Englishness was heaven-sent.

My present one is burgundy. The face in it is bald and lined. Old Ernie Bevin’s history. But passport-wise, I’m colour-blind.

Brian AllgarDear kind Britannic Majesty, I write Most humbly, as I’ve done throughout your reign, Imploring you to use your royal might To get me out of trouble once again.

Although my passport’s British, here’s my plight: I find myself unfairly stuck in Spain, Imprisoned out of anti-British spite. The charge? A mere three kilos of cocaine!

So please remind these chaps that you request — Indeed, require! That’s admirably bolder — That I should freely pass at your behest; No hindrance for a British passport-holder.

Your words upon my passport should prevail, According to my Spanish-speaking lawyer; But if your royal eloquence should fail, Please send a Navy gunship or destroyer.

D.A. PrinceI met a traveller from an antique land who said: I know you think it’s set in stone some proud blue British passport in your hand will charm away the threat of foreign frown. You think it gives priority, command and status — something you can take as read; that you can stroll through barriers and things, not wait where lesser-passport folks are led.

But lift your eyes: though circling stars appear they do not beckon you. Those starry rings welcome those others. Look! and then despair the wreckage that has brought you this decay, and how your love of boundaries means you’ll bear this long and weary queue, stretched far away.

Max RossWe’re travelling to the past by train To bonnie Aberdeen Where Salmond’s shooting Sassenachs And Nicola’s a queen. The Bruce is still at Bannockburn Awaiting young King Eddie. We’re coming to the border so Our passports must be ready.

The land o’ thistles got its way In referendum eight And Caledonia became An independent state. We’re stopping now to let the guards Inspect our English train, And having had our passports stamped We’ll venture north again.

Alanna BlakeWhen I consider how my life was spent In business travel all across the earth And, as I bore the proof of British birth, Respected highly everywhere I went, This royal coat of arms for decades meant I was indeed a document of worth, I thought that I would never see a dearth Of welcome visas to each continent.

But now I lie abandoned on a shelf Beneath some old Spectators, such is fate! This photo shows a distant, faded youth, With none to care about it but myself. I’m useless now and blue and out of date, I can’t pass anywhere. Life’s final truth.

Frank McDonaldRing in a passport that will please And make us proud of who we are; A passport that proclaims afar This was the land that ruled the seas.

Ring in the tough, unyielding blue The sign that British stands for best; A land that towered above the rest. Ring in the nation that we knew.

Ring out the limp, lacklustre red The symbol of a servile state, Branding our country second rate. Ring out the woes to which we’re wed.

Bring back the passport we withdrew When we abandoned being great. Ring in a document of weight Crowned with a crown, in navy blue.

Your next challenge is to provide a poem entitled ‘The Love Song of [insert name of a well-known figure, dead or alive, here]’. Please email entries, Eliot-style or otherwise, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 7 February (16 lines maximum).